


What Ever Happened to Martín Berrote

by boom_slap



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Suicide, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: "Martín was dead and Andrés made lasagna."This one has all the warnings. There's suicide, first and foremost, blood and violence, but also a step by step instruction to a godless burial as well as a few very ill-placed jokes.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 117
Kudos: 196





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back and I bring you Pain™️. I'm excited to be burned at the stake for this! 
> 
> Rainbowcat saved my ass by beta reading this shit, so THANK U LOVE U

It was a rainy morning in Florence, the clouds hanging heavily over the city. They seemed to be almost touching the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore. The atmospheric pressure was low, causing an exhausting, throbbing pain in Sergio's temples.

The plan for the day wasn't reassuring. In the evening, he had a flight booked for Spain and before that, he needed to go back to Andrés' monastery to pick up the rest of his folders concerning _la Fábrica de la Moneda_. Two days before, Andrés promised him to abandon the Bank plan and to come to Madrid to work with him instead. The only problem, as per usual, was Martín.

Sergio would never wish to become witness to the moment his brother told Martín about his decision. Docile enough in everyday situations or Andrés' presence, Martín could change in a matter of seconds. He's seen him in bar fights, throwing insults and punches at strangers. Oftentimes, Sergio could see the poorly-hidden anger in his face, the disdainful curl of his lips, the desperation and obsession in his eyes, directed always either at Andrés, or at their suicidal plan. Mostly at Andrés.

He was well aware of his brother's faults, too. Andrés, as charming and caring as he could be when he so desired, was completely inconsiderate of other people's feelings. He gladly accepted every emotion that was beneficial to him; the rest, he dismissed without blinking an eye. He basked in Martín's utter devotion without acknowledging the madness behind it. He reveled in the idea of robbing the gold and he didn't think about the faults in the plan that would lead to his demise. At least he hasn't thought about them before Sergio's pounded them into his dense head with everything he had.

During the ride to the monastery, he found himself hoping for two things: one, that Martín's been already dealt with; two, that Andrés has executed an act of manipulation good enough to have made Martín believe whatever bullshit he's come up with.

Andrés had a very clear deal with the monks. The _no interference_ rule, meaning that even when they met in the corridors or in the beautiful courtyard, their proper spaces were off limits. There would be small talk and an exchange of favors from both parties, but generally, no interference was allowed; the two parts of the monastery were separate.

Still, as he entered the old stone complex, Sergio found himself face to face with the old prior.

"Oh-... Good morning," he stammered, fixing his glasses.

" _Dio ti benedica_ ," the old monk said in a rough voice. "There is a concern."

"What concern?" Sergio frowned. What a way to start the day.

"We do not take any interest in what our blessed patron is doing. Still, many brothers have heard disquieting noises last night. I have not yet seen _signore_ Andrés today, therefore I'm signaling this problem to you."

" _Signore_ Andrés is not-... what noises?"

The prior was already taking his leave, but he looked back.

"Screams. And a gunshot, is what I believe having heard," he said.

_Oh, fuck_.

He could easily imagine a fight between the two friends, as well as Martín firing shots in his fury. He found himself scared for Andrés as he walked down the corridor, his steps quick and determined. The stone walls around him were completely quiet. He went straight to the chapel, where he kept some of his papers anyway, and at first, it looked empty, even if incredibly messy: plans scattered all over the floor, broken glass. Sergio sighed, looking around.

His heart stopped in his chest when he spotted blood splattered over the wall, near Andrés' painting. He took a few shaky steps forward and he saw him.

Martín was on the floor, only that it wasn't Martín, it was his body, lifeless, empty, like a porcelain doll or like a wax figure, bloodied like a still picture from a slasher movie, bloodied hair, chest, chin, mouth which was slightly open, just as his eyes, unmoving, empty, empty, _empty_.

The gun was still in his hand.

Sergio stepped back, grabbing his hair in two fistfuls and pulling, a whine escaping his throat because he stared death in the eyes and death was an unknown, a horror, an alien and it should never be as vulgar as this, stripped of prayers and shrouds, condensed into a void vessel on the floor.

_It's just a body_ , his mind explained quietly. _It's just a broken body without breath; it's simple biology._

_Get yourself together_ , he thought. _It's just Martín. Dead. It happens._

Sergio stepped closer and leaned down to check for the pulse, because even if you find somebody with a hole in their head, that's what you do - you check for the pulse. He flinched violently because the body was not cold yet, and the blood was thick and sticky. There was no pulse, but the body was not cold yet, and the blood was thick and sticky, and Sergio felt sick.

His throat tightened and he straightened up, and he ran away like a coward, outside, searching for air that wasn't as still as the one inside the chapel.

He sat down on the stairs before the main gate and looked down at his hand, stained red, and he thought: _My God. Martín is dead_. An absurd, a grotesque, a heavy weight in his chest; his life was over, just like that. He was gone.

Gone, like Sergio wanted him to be. But not like that, never like that. He wanted Martín to disappear, he wanted him absent, he wanted him erased, because he was a weak link, a mistake, an obstacle, an unwanted addition, a bad influence.

He was a broken body hidden in the chapel and now, his presence was more imposing than ever. _J'accuse_!, thundered Zola in his famous letter. _J'accuse_ , screamed the lifeless body, appearing before Sergio's eyes whenever he tried to close them for a second.

Sergio sat there for a while before finally, a car appeared and stopped in front on the monastery. Andrés got out of it, walked to the passenger's side and opened the door for Tatiana.

Sergio had a tendency to dislike his brother's conquests and that lady, although without a doubt smart, nice and beautiful, was no exception. Now, his aversion was even stronger, since he supposed Martín's suicide wasn't caused only by whatever Andrés has told him, but more probably by every single thing that happened since he had fallen in love with him. Andrés, pretending not to notice, was doing a spectacular job of hurting his best friend. Little by little.

_Martín, y tú ves alguna mujer soltera por aquí? Lo más parecido que tenemos eres tú._

They approached him, Tatiana hanging off of Andrés' shoulder like a pretty jewel, and Sergio looked up at his brother who wore one of his dumbest, _isn't-she-perfect_ smiles.

"What's going on, Sergio? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Sergio swallowed, his throat still so tight that it was hard to speak. Instead, he unclenched his fist to show the bloody palm. Andrés' eyes widened even before his smile was gone. Without as much as a single word, he walked past Sergio and into the monastery. Sergio pulled himself to his feet and followed him, along with Tatiana.

When they saw it, Tatiana let out a gasp and quickly covered her mouth with her hands, stifling a sob.

Andrés, on the other hand, took one look at the body and flinched, immediately turning his back, squeezing his eyes shut.

The three of them stood there, frozen, for what felt like eternity. Finally, Andrés let out a quiet breath, although he didn't move.

"It's your fault," he said, emotionless. Sergio felt a surge of anger, shame, guilt. He waited for his brother to lash out, to throw punches, maybe, to tell him: _My best friend is dead and it's because you wanted him gone_ , _I had to tell him to leave and now he's dead,_ and _I hate you for it_ , and _I'm in pain_ , and _are you satisfied now_ , and _how am I supposed to live with this_.

"It's your fault, so you're going to clean it up and get rid of the body," he said instead.

Sergio stared at him.

"What..?" he breathed and it sounded small, disbelieving and awfully broken. Andrés was staring at the wall in front of him, unmoving.

"Get rid of the body," he said again, calmly. "Burn it, bury it, feed it to the pigs like a _mafioso_ for all I care. I'll go tell the prior that there has been an, ah-... drunken accident."

Sergio knew Andrés very well and there were rarely times where his brother left him speechless. He was even more shocked to hear Tatiana speak up, since she was always an afterthought to him; an accessory, if you will, that Andrés would soon exchange for a shinier one.

"Did he have-... any family?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. They were already talking in the past tense and Sergio felt like screaming.

"No," came a terse answer.

"Any other friends?"

"Not that I know of. Not that it's any surprise."

There was so much cruelty in these words. Sergio took a quick look at the body on the floor, since somehow nobody was paying attention to it. _I'm sorry_ , he wanted to cry. _You do not deserve this, I'm so sorry._

"We don't have to worry about anyone looking for him," Andrés said and with that, he walked out of the chapel, not sparing a single glance.

  
  


How do you clean up a scene of suicide? Well, you have to move the body and that already was a complex problem for Sergio.

First of all, he felt like he had to close Martín's eyes, because that's what people normally do when they find somebody dead. The thing is, you have to touch the body and that is not a pleasant feeling when it's still fresh like that. It feels wrong. Sergio told himself that there was nothing scary or disgusting about it and he carefully slid his fingers over Martín's eyelids, closing them effectively. First success of the day.

Then, he went to look for a sheet to serve as a shroud, since his wish wasn't to get blood all over himself. Just to spite Andrés, he chose one from his room. He carefully wrapped the body in it, feeling as if-... as if he was cheating by covering Martín's face, because suddenly, there wasn't Martín in the room, nor his body - there was only a heavy thing, rolled up in a white sheet.

It felt like a ton of bricks as Sergio carried it into Martín's room, losing his balance a few times on the way, and placed it on the bed. He knew that normally, a body should be washed, cleaned and dressed. The mouth should be sewn shut and the nose filled with cotton. Sergio couldn't bring himself to do it. He was a coward and he felt sorry for it.

Back in the chapel, Tatiana was scrubbing the floor with hot water and Andrés was there, rummaging through the remains of their project, putting them in card boxes - papers, plans, drawings, models.

"You're packing it all up already?" Sergio asked, frowning, kneeling down to take the scrub brush from Tatiana's hands.

"Of course. We're leaving for our honeymoon tonight. Oh, I've talked to the monks - they won't mind if there's a grave behind the monastery, just not on the sacred ground. Something about suicides being considered a mortal sin. Ironic, isn't it?"

Sergio said nothing. Instead, he began scrubbing the bloodied wall with furious abandon. Tatiana leaned back and stared at her husband.

"You seem awfully comfortable with the idea of burying Martín," she said, her voice quiet but steady.

"Well," there was a dangerous edge to his tone, now. "He was awfully comfortable with the idea of blowing his brains out.” Then, with sort of a sick amusement: ”Look, there's a piece over there, right next to Sergio's hand! That's so disgusting."

Sergio jumped to his feet and strode over to his brother, pushing the brush into his hands along with the bucket of water, splashing some of it onto Andrés' suit.

"Finish it yourself," he growled and stormed out of the chapel.

He had a grave to dig.

Digging graves is not an easy task. It takes a lot of force, but it can be purifying, in a way. Sergio was letting it all out: both anger and guilt, exhausting himself in the best way possible.

" _Hermano_! Dinner is on the table," Andrés called, keeping his distance from the hole in the ground.

_Dinner_.

They were supposed to _eat_.

With Martín's body in the same building.

Sergio felt sick, but he climbed out of the grave and followed his brother back to the monastery nevertheless. He was sweaty and covered in dirt, but he only cared enough to wash his hands before sitting down at the table, looking away from the place usually occupied by Martín.

Andrés made lasagna. Martín was dead and Andrés made lasagna. Sergio stared at his plate, gritting his teeth from how nauseous he was. He looked over at Tatiana and saw her pick at the food with her fork, moving it around, not taking a single bite. Her face took on a pale shade of green. Andrés took one bite and his slow chewing was the only sound in the dark dining hall. Sergio has never heard anything as repulsive as that.

The tense silence was broken by the clattering of Tatiana's fork as she's thrown it onto her plate.

"I'm sorry, _querido_ , I can't," she said in a strained voice and Sergio felt it with every fiber of his being. There was another moment of silence.

"Of course," Andrés said finally, getting up and gathering the plates, balancing one of them on his forearm like a skilled waiter. "I must admit, what we've experienced today was absolutely revolting," he smiled, all teeth and no joy. "I'm terribly sorry that we had to be inconvenienced in such a way."

Both Tatiana and Sergio flinched when Andrés threw the dishes into the sink, not bothering to put away the leftovers, probably breaking at least one plate by the sound of it. He shot them an annoyed look, then, and walked away.

They sat in silence for a moment before Tatiana spoke up.

"This place is going to be so haunted," she said, staring down at the table, no humor in her voice. 

"I think it already is," Sergio muttered under his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was like maybe I should wait before bombarding y'all with more but then I was like nah
> 
> Have fun

By the time Sergio had finished digging the grave, the sun began to set, hidden behind the clouds. He had already cancelled his flight and booked another one for the next evening. He decided to take a shower before the-... funeral, if you could call it that. Maybe _godless burial_ would be a better term for it. He dressed into a suit, because that's what you do when you have to bury someone, and went looking for Andrés and Tatiana.

He really shouldn't have been surprised to find them outside, Tatiana standing awkwardly to the side, looking pale and fragile, as Andrés was putting their suitcases into the car. 

"... what are you doing?" Sergio asked quietly, walking down the stairs. 

"I've told you already," Andrés rolled his eyes. "We're leaving for our honeymoon."

 _You have got to be kidding me_ , Sergio wanted to say. Or _you can't do this_ , or _stop pretending it doesn't affect you_. Instead, he punched Andrés straight in the face. The older stumbled backwards, blood gushing out of his nose, and he looked up at Sergio with clear fury. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sergio was faster. 

"We have to-... you have to bury him, first!" he snapped. "He was your friend, for fuck’s sake!" 

"He was a coward. Nothing more than a pathetic coward," Andrés hissed through gritted teeth. "I want nothing to do with him. Bury him, leave him to rot, I don't care.”

"Andrés!" Sergio tried one last time, still angry, but almost begging at this point, because even Andrés couldn't have been that cold and cruel, could he? 

Of course he could, because he got into the car, wiping at his nose, and Tatiana threw Sergio an apologetic look before getting in as well.

Sergio really felt like crying at this point, as the car drove off. He felt gutted and so impossibly lonely, having to stay in the monastery with his only company being Martín. Who was dead. How _great_.

He slowly walked back into the building, taking the direction to Martín's room. Now, Sergio has read about the work of coroners and mortuary make-up artists and many of them stated that in order not to get overwhelmed, they would talk to the bodies.

As he reached the room, Sergio decided he was desperate enough to try it.

"Hey," he muttered, leaning against the doorframe, looking at the terrifying thing wrapped in the bloodied white sheet. "Look, um-... we have to bury you, alright?"

He stepped a little bit closer.

"I know I'm not-... the best person to be doing that. I haven't been-... exactly-... nice to you, lately," his throat squeezed tightly at that. He leaned down and picked up the body, groaning because it was already becoming stiff and hard to move around. "Fuck, you're heavy."

He managed to carry it outside and put it down next to the grave. He jumped in and not for the first time, considered getting help from the monks. Then again, it was a private thing, shameful and hopeless, and what would the monks do anyway, since they refused to let Martín be buried on consecrated soil?

The grave was deep enough that while standing in it, Sergio's eyes were on the level of the ground. He took a deep breath and grabbed the white sheets, pulling the body in and he tried, he really tried not to let it fall, but it was impossible, because Sergio was alone there, and as much as he tried to be gentle and careful, he winced and squeezed his eyes shut at the sickening _thump_ as it hit the bottom of the grave. He let go, leaning against the dirty soil around him, breathing heavily to calm his racing heart. 

Funny how, faced with death, your body does everything to remind you that you're alive.

"I can't tell you-..." he babbled, looking down. "I can't tell you why he's not here. But I'm here, okay? I'm here."

A moment passed by and Sergio crawled out of the grave, and it felt awful to start filling it with soil, the dirt falling onto the white sheet. There was no coffin, no mourners, no flowers and no candles, no chants, no nothing, and tears pricked at Sergio's eyes from the primitivism of it all as well as from the burning, tearing pain in his arms as he kept shoveling. It began to rain halfway through and it was kind of a relief for his sore muscles.

When he was done, it was dark, the rain was pouring and he threw the shovel away, falling to his knees, panting. He then moved to sit back, running a hand through his wet hair. He stayed like that for a long time, his mind, for once, void of any rational thought. The only sound echoing there was a voice, slightly nasal and slightly hoarse, that he's always considered mildly annoying.

_Sergio, amigo querido de mi corazón!_

_Es broma..._

_No confías en mí._

_Te necesitamos, hermano. Por favor._

The only sound around him were the fat raindrops falling heavily onto the fresh grave, turning the soil into mud. 

Sergio had no idea how long he's spent sitting by the grave, but when he pulled himself to his feet, he was exhausted and drenched. A makeshift cross had to suffice for a memorial, made from two thick branches tied together.

He walked back to the monastery, took a shower and fell asleep, too tired to think. He woke up in the middle of the night, though, because of blue eyes staring at him in a nightmare. 

_Just a dream_ , he thought. _Just your brain reacting to trauma. That’s completely normal._

Still, he found himself unable to go back to sleep. He walked around the empty chambers, lighting as many candles as he could find, turning every lamp on. Finally, he reached Martín’s old room and since the rest of the night was already doomed to be sleepless, he began sorting through his things - books, clothes, documents. He’s thrown away empty bottles, marveling at their number. Subconsciously, he was looking for some kind of a message - a journal, a letter, a note, anything that would let him know what exactly has happened to Martín. He was well aware that Andrés wouldn’t tell him. He imagined that his brother must’ve been pointlessly cruel in whatever he’s said, judging by his words later on.

Of course, he didn’t find any clue. There was nothing; an empty room and a fresh grave. Nothing more. 

His exhausted mind was playing tricks on him, pretending to hear footsteps on the stone floors, echoing in the empty hallways. 

_The dead are dead_ , he kept telling himself. _The dead are dead and that’s all, there’s nothing else_. 

Truth was: this was the scariest part. 

By the time morning came, he’s cleaned Martín’s room as well as moved the boxes filled and left in the chapel by Andrés there. He locked the room, put the key in the drawer of Andrés’ desk and that was it. He was done. 

He gathered the rest of his things and left for Florence. Later that day, he got onto the plane and left Italy behind. 

At that time, he didn’t know that he would come back to the monastery in five years. 

Sergio was surprised when Tatiana called him three months after the… incident. 

“Can I pay you a visit?” she asked and Sergio had a _no_ at the end of his tongue, but then again, Andrés has had four wives before her and none of them ever wanted to speak to Sergio one on one. Therefore, he said _sure_ and agreed to meet her over the weekend. 

Saturday rolled around and they sat over coffee in a small, cozy café in Madrid. Tatiana looked tired. Sergio was tired, too.

“I’m leaving your brother,” she said quietly, her fingers running around the edge of the cup. 

“Not that it’s any surprise, but… Why?” he asked, sighing. Tatiana looked up at him, biting her lips. She wasn’t angry, he noted, she seemed almost embarrassed. 

“I just-... I can’t handle him. Not when he’s like that. I know it’s supposed to be through thick and thin and all that jazz, but it’s not about whatever troubles him, it’s about how he is towards me.”

Sergio leaned in a little, pressing his hands in-between his knees. 

“Tell me. From the beginning.”

“Ever since we left the monastery, he can’t sleep, he barely eats anything. I mean that’s… understable, right? The thing is, he doesn’t let me talk about it. He snaps whenever I try to even start a conversation about what happened. I could understand that, too, I really could. But, you see-... if he cracks enough to say anything about Martín, it’s always the same thing: _I don’t care, let the maggots have him-_ ” she paused, closing her eyes for a moment and swallowing visibly. Sergio waited patiently for her to continue. “I can’t listen to that anymore. And the other thing-... He’s cruel to me, too. Cold. He’s not being violent or anything like that, God, no, I would’ve left him immediately. He just keeps pushing me away.”

Sergio let out a heavy breath. He looked around the café, not really sure what to do with the information. It was good to know that Andrés wasn’t entirely heartless, at the very least. 

“A few weeks ago he woke up with a scream. I’ve never heard him scream before, Sergio,” Tatiana ran a hand over her face. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, he noticed. Maybe she wasn’t as conceited as the rest of Andrés’ girls after all. “He was terrified and I wanted to help him. You know what he did?”

“Did he-... throw you out of the bedroom, probably?” he offered shyly, keeping his voice low, trying to be respectful. She gave him a sad smile. 

“Yes. He locked the door and he wouldn’t let me in. Not until morning. And I just-... I only wanted to _comfort him_.“

Her voice was breaking. _Shit_ , Sergio thought, _this woman really does love Andrés. Incredible_. 

“Don’t feel bad about this,” he said, shrugging slightly. “My brother is not for you to fix.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I’ve already left the apartment. He said he didn’t care, but-... check up with him, will you?”

“Sure.”

They finished the coffee in silence which wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. Sergio paid for both of them, wanting to be a gentleman, and they walked out of the café and into the bright sun. Tatiana looked up, squinting. 

“It’s such a pity,” she said. Sergio glanced at her and she looked back, shielding her eyes with her hand. “About Martín.”

He felt sick. 

“Yeah.”

“He was nice to me, you know,” she smiled softly and yes, that was surprising, considering the… everything about Martín. “Even though I was Andrés’ girlfriend, then wife.”

Sergio cleared his throat, looking away. 

“What do you mean?”

“Please. He loved him so much. You would have to be blind not to see it. Andrés knew, too, I’m sure he did. I have no idea what he must’ve done for him to-... you know.”

Sergio really was feeling sick and the bright sun seemed out of place. 

“Why are you so sure it was about Andrés?” he asked. 

“With Martín, it was always about Andrés.”

Sergio had to break into his own brother’s apartment, because the bastard did not open the door. 

“I regret teaching you how to pick locks,” Andrés mumbled into the pillow as Sergio pulled open the curtains in his bedroom, letting the soft afternoon light in. The AC was turned up so that it was cold in the room and Andrés was wrapped up in the covers like a burrito. Sergio walked over to his closet and pulled out a suit, throwing it onto his brother’s head. 

“Get up, you useless asshole,” he barked, crossing his arms over his chest. Andrés groaned but he crawled out of the bed, rubbing at his eyes. Barefoot, he padded to the kitchen, Sergio following his steps. He poured himself some coffee from the coffeemaker and then, pulled out a bottle of whisky and added a generous splash. Sergio cocked an eyebrow and received a death glare in turn. 

“It’s 6 pm, it’s perfectly fine to enjoy a cocktail.”

“Sure.”

Andrés emptied the cup in a few gulps and then, disappeared in the bathroom. Sergio looked around the apartment; it wasn’t messy, but there was a fair layer of dust over some of the furniture.

Andrés returned after nearly half an hour, freshly shaven and dressed in a different suit than the one Sergio picked out for him. He opened one of the cabinets and pulled out some graham crackers and dried fruit. 

“Ready to explain what happened to Martín?” Sergio asked, keeping his voice steady. 

“Who?” Andrés asked without blinking an eye. 

Sergio clenched his fist, but he managed not to react otherwise. 

“You know,” he said. “Your best friend. Who I had to bury while you were having fun in- what was it this time, Morocco?”

“Did you know how many stray cats are there in the streets of Rabat?”

“Did you know he didn’t leave any letter? It wasn’t premeditated.”

“We bought these beautiful tajine pots, I must try making it, but I need to buy _ras el hanout_ first.”

“One of the risk factors of suicide are poor coping skills, have you seen how much he'd been drinking?”

Finally, Andrés snapped, but only enough to slam his hand against the counter and then go quiet again. 

Sergio waited.

“Better shut up,” Andrés’ voice was low, but he was clearly angry. “You arrogant, self-righteous _hypocrite_.”

“It takes one to know one,” he sighed, playing with the cuff of his shirt. “Look, fine. Don’t mention Martín ever again if that’s your wish. But I can’t have you moping around. Work with me on the _Fábrica_ plan, like you promised.”

Andrés jaw was tense as he stared at him, but finally, he nodded.

"Fine."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh the angst of it all

Sergio dragged Andrés’ dumb ass to Madrid, then to Toledo. Explaining the details of his plan took a long while. So did all of the other preparations they had to make over the next year. By May, they have gathered a team - a group of misfits and fuck-ups, but still a team. Sergio became the Professor, Andrés - Berlín.   
  
Andrés behaved, as in: he didn’t behave well, but like himself, throwing around outrageous comments, making fun of everyone else, being generally insufferable. Still, Sergio was watching him closely, very much aware of his instability. He would discreetly observe him dissociate, lost in thought, or note if he wasn’t eating enough. He would hear his footsteps at night sometimes when he couldn’t sleep. Therefore, would do random check-ups on him, walking into his room to discuss an _important detail_.   
  
One foggy, Sunday morning after breakfast he’d decided to do just that, because Andrés seemed distant during their meal and since they had an important lesson planned for later, Sergio couldn’t have that.   
  
He slipped into the room and frowned when he found it empty. He glanced through the window and there he was, in the backyard, with Moscú, Denver, Helsinki and Oslo. The other men were kicking around a football and Andrés looked hilarious in his black suit, watching them and sometimes passing the ball with his dress shoes.   
  
Sergio smiled and was about to leave the room, but then he noticed Andrés’ sketchbook on his desk. Now, what Sergio was about to do was a violation of privacy, but consider this: he didn’t care.   
  
He began flipping through the pages, smiling at the portraits of himself, Nairobi, Helsinki, Denver. There was one sketch that took two entire pages: all of them were there, sitting around the table, laughing and drinking. It was very… heartwarming. He was about to close the sketchbook when he saw it. In the drawing, between Nairobi and himself, sat Martín, grinning, gesturing flamboyantly with his hand. Sergio felt his breath hitch in his throat when he noticed the word scribbled messily on the page: _Palermo_.   
  
_¿Lo sabes porque forra las carpetas con mi nombre?_  
  
He closed the sketchbook and left the room.   


  
  
Andrés wanted Sergio to promise he would get away if something went wrong, but Sergio couldn’t do it. They sat together by the fireplace, burning photos, documents, sketches.   
  
“We have to think about the present,” Sergio said and Andrés sighed. “Not the past.”   
  
_Please, stay focused_ , he thought. _Please, don’t be stupid._  
  


  
They both ended up doing stupid things that nearly cost them their lives. 

  
Before leaving Europe, Sergio has commited one more dangerous mistake, well-aware of its possible consequences. Leaving Raquel the coordinates was a gamble the result of which he could be only about 60% sure. The thing was: he didn’t care about his safety. He wanted her by his side no matter what.   
  
He admitted all of it to Andrés before they first parted ways and his brother stared at him, keeping his expression carefully blank, but Sergio could see the anger bubbling underneath.   
  
“You’re an idiot,” he spat and for the first time in his life, Sergio could understand Martín better than he did Andrés.   


  
  
Here’s the thing about life: it goes on. Sometimes, you experience something terrible and you think: I could never forget this. And you don’t, not really; when you reach into your brain, you can always find it and pull it out. However, at first you don’t have to look for it. It’s always there, its ghost haunting you with every step. Then, suddenly, as you’re lying in bed, you realize: _Huh. I did not think about this for a whole day._ Then, you think about it again. But as another two days pass, you don’t. In the end, you don’t think about it at all unless provoked.   
  
Aside from the rare times Andrés would visit, Sergio did not think about Martín at all. It was in the past. His brother did not deal with it; so be it. He would, in his time.   
  
Sergio was happy with his little family, with Raquel, in their beautiful home.

Honestly, he shouldn’t have been surprised when disaster hit. Neither should it have come as a surprise that it wore Tokio’s face.   
  
The first person he reached out to, even before Tokio arrived, was of course Andrés.   
  
“My, _my_ ,” the man rolled his eyes. “Tokio and Río did something dumb. They should have let me shoot the poor kid, he wouldn’t have suffered so much.”   
  
“Stop fucking around, will you? We only have one choice.“   
  
“What choice?”Andrés frowned, inspecting his glass of wine closely.   
  
“The _Banco del España_ plan.”   
  
The glass shattered in Andrés' hand.   


  
  
“Why does your brother look as if he’s about to throw up?” Raquel asked, leaning against Sergio at breakfast. “I thought that he considered himself a demigod, aren’t they supposed to be stronger than us, poor, regular people?”   
  
He chuckled, resting his forehead against hers. 

  
“No, seriously. Aren’t heists his passion?”   
  
“They are,” Sergio answered slowly. “He is just not particularly fond of that one.”   
  
“I thought he came up with it?”   
  
“Oh, he did. But then he had to… abandon what he’d created himself.”   
  
He wasn’t talking about the plan anymore. Raquel raised an eyebrow at him.   
  
“I feel like there’s more to that. I guess there’s no point in asking?”   
  
Sergio sighed deeply and shook his head. He looked at Andrés who was listening to something Nairobi was saying, but again, he seemed absent. Distant. As if he were somewhere else.   
  


  
The monastery stood same as five years before, a lonely block of stone at the edge of a cliff. The sight made Sergio shiver slightly, but he put on a brave face as he got out of the car. He looked back at Andrés and the man gave him a court nod, his expression tight and unreadable.   
  
As they walked in, Sergio turned towards the group.   
  
“You’re free to roam around. We need to gather up some things and we’ll meet in the chapel at the end of this corridor in half an hour.”   
  
They all nodded and scattered, and Sergio swiftly grabbed Andrés by the collar of his coat before he could escape. Andrés scoffed.   
  
“Fine,” he growled and the two of them fetched the key from Andrés’ drawer before going to Martín’s room. They stood in front of the heavy wooden doors for a moment.   
  
“Just open the fucking door,” Andrés murmured. “No need to make a big deal out of it.”   
  
Sergio turned the key in the lock and it clicked. He pushed the door open and, of course, he found everything exactly how he left it: boxes filled with projects, papers and folders, neatly arranged notebooks, clothes still hanging in the open closet. Sergio glanced at Andrés and saw him staring at a pair of elegant black oxfords. They were quiet for a long moment.   
  
“Want to look around for a while?” he dared ask in a whisper. That made Andrés snap out of his state immediately.   
  
“What is this, fucking _Brokeback Mountain_? Fuck off,” he hissed, his voice venomous. He picked up the first box and walked out of the room to carry it back into the chapel.

  
They prepared everything for the first official lesson and everyone slowly gathered in the chapel-turned-classroom. Sergio couldn’t help but glance at the spot that was once covered in blood. He flinched and shook it off.   
  
Before he even sat down, Bogotá looked between Andrés, Sergio and Marsella.   
  
“Where’s the small gay guy?” he asked and Sergio was very close to having a heart attack, but he was saved by Helsinki who perked up instantly.   
  
“There’s a small gay here?” he asked, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth and everyone roared with laughter. Well, almost everyone.   
  
“Let’s-... let’s just begin,” Sergio cleared his throat, trying to look at his brother as he stood up to join him.   


  
  
After the class, they gathered in the dining room and again, Sergio didn’t really have much appetite. He was very grateful for the company, though, their good-natured jokes and stories successfully diverting his attention from bad memories. That was, until Nairobi and Raquel shared a look before catching him by the arms and dragging him towards the window. Raquel looked interested, Nairobi - excited.   
  
“Who did Berlín murder?” the former grinned and Sergio felt all the blood drain from his face. Both Nairobi and Raquel gasped at his reaction. 

“ _No_.”   
  
“Exactly, no!” he snapped, trying to keep his voice low, shaking his head. “I mean, no one! I mean-... what are you even talking about?”   
  
“The _grave_ ,” Nairobi whispered dramatically, raising her eyebrows. “The one in the back, abandoned, with that depressing little homemade cross.”   
  
Raquel has gone quiet, observing her lover with increasing worry. Sergio squeezed his eyes shut.   
  
“That’s-... a long story,” he said. “You shouldn’t ask Berlín about it. Just-... be respectful, please?”   
  
He opened his eyes to see Nairobi staring at him, confused. He pleaded with his gaze and she nodded, slowly, stepping away. Sergio let out a shaky breath and Raquel’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into his tense muscles with her thumb. 

  
  
  
Raquel waited a few days before she touched on the subject again and Sergio appreciated the respite. She did it late in the evening, when everything was calm and quiet, the candles slowly melting away.   
  
“Who’s buried there?” she asked simply, sitting on the bed next to Sergio and taking one of his hands in hers.   
  
“Andrés’ friend,” he said quietly, rubbing at his temple.   
  
“Yours, too?”   
  
He paused from a moment.   
  
“I don’t know,” he shrugged, finally. Then, bitterness creeping into his voice, he spat: “Does burying someone with your own hands make them your friend?”   
  
“I don’t think so,” she said, calm and comforting. Sergio slumped forward.   
  
“I don’t know if I liked him or not. He was dangerous, ill-balanced, but-... Andrés is the same. He’s proven it in the _Fábrica_. And I still love him. See, it was-... With the Bank, it was Martín who came up with the idea and worked on that with Andrés. They’ve known each other for ages, he was a brilliant engineer and they figured out how to get in, how to melt the gold. But there were so many faults in their plan, I couldn’t-... I was afraid for my brother. I really was. So I told him he had to let it go, I convinced him that _my_ plan was better. I didn’t think about the pain it would cause Martín. Not for a single second. See, he was in love with Andrés.   
And I knew about it. I knew about it and I’ve still done what I’ve done.”   
  
He bit his tongue and looked away. Raquel was quiet for a moment before he spoke, her words careful and meaning no harm.   
  
“He killed himself, didn’t he?”   
  
Sergio nodded.   
  
“I had to bury him, because Andrés was being an asshole about it.”   
  
Raquel hummed, leaning against him.   
  
“I can believe that.”   
  
They sat in silence, Sergio with his head bowed and Raquel stroking softly at the nape of his neck with her fingers. She leaned down to press a kiss there.   
  
“He must’ve handled it very badly. Berlín, I mean. I’m not saying you were right in what you’ve done, but you shouldn’t take the blame,” she mused, resting her chin on Sergio’s shoulder.   
  
Sergio knew he wasn’t to blame, not really. He had tried to make up for his sins by taking care of Martín’s body. But then again, he left right after. He tried to forget. So it felt unfair to have Raquel, amazing as she was, pressed against him, warm and alive and so comforting.   
  
When she kissed him, he thought about the soil filling Martín’s mouth.   


  
  
“You’re not going to visit the grave?”   
  
“Have you?”   
  
“Did I kill him?”   
  
“Did _I_?”   
  
“Kind of, yeah.”   
  
“I don’t remember pulling the trigger.”   
  
Talking to Andrés was worse than dealing with children. Therefore, Sergio dropped the subject. 

Later, in the evening, he went to see Martín’s grave. He was surprised to find Helsinki there, standing over the miserable-looking cross. Underneath, there was a single candle.   
The grave was covered in grass and weeds. _Five years_.   
  
“Did you light the candle?” he asked. He was almost getting used to the tightness in his throat by now.   
  
Helsinki gave a nod and a small shrug. Sergio marveled at how soft the man was, how he could make himself look so small, even though his posture was the exact opposite of it.   
  
“Why?”   
  
“To remember.”   
  
“You didn’t know him, though.”   
  
“Him?” Helsinki echoed. “So it is the small gay who was missing, yes?”   
  
Sergio stared at him.   
  
“Yes. Why are you here?”   
  
“Professor. Why does death hurt so much?” he asked in turn and Sergio frowned, flicking his glasses up his nose.   
  
“Well… “ he cleared his throat. “Depending on what you believe, it can be considered final.   
Or rather, it is final to our existence here. By the very definition, death is the end of life.”   
  
“Yes,” Helsinki nodded. “And what does it mean for us? For those who-... for those who stay.”   
  
Sergio thought about his father and his mother, about Oslo and Moscú; about Martín, or - according to Andrés - _Palermo_ , who never got to wear neither the name nor the Dalí mask. Sergio refused him the right to do so.   
  
“It means… “ he began, the words thick and sticky on his tongue, like blood. “That you don’t get to see them. Or hear them. You don’t get to say anything else to them. You can’t do anything for them anymore.”   
  
Helsinki nodded and gave a small smile.   
  
“You can do one thing,” he said slowly, putting weight behind his words, intent on making Sergio understand. “You can remember. You can light a candle. And then, everyone can see-... That someone remembers. This is the only thing we owe the dead.”   
  
Sergio glanced at the small flame.   
  
“I did not know him,” Helsinki continued. “But this place looked very sad. Very lonely.”   
  
With that, he gave Sergio a pat on the shoulder, turned around and left. Sergio stayed for a moment, reaching into his memory to pull out an image of Martín’s wide smile, like a movie frame. He surprised himself by smiling sadly to himself at that. Maybe he was fond of the man after all, just a little.   
  
When he walked back to the monastery, it was already completely dark outside and he ran into Andrés who was standing in the back door, leaning against the frame, staring at the small, flickering light in the distance.   
  
“Better put that out,” he said, his tone cold as ice.   
  
Before Sergio could answer, he turned on his heel and walked away.   



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK GOD FOR GTSat who noticed that I slapped this shit onto Allegretto, Allegro, Vivace which is NOT THE MOOD

Days stretched into weeks. They were busy with classes, the tension seemed to be rising with every hour. Sergio was waiting for something to snap. 

It finally did one day, when everyone scattered after the class, but Nairobi stayed behind, looking determined, staring down both Sergio and Andrés. 

“Any questions?” Sergio asked, smiling nervously. 

“Yes,” she said, pulling something out of her pocket and throwing it onto the table. “Who the _fuck_ was Martín Berrote?”

Sergio looked down at the table. Nairobi has somehow found Martín’s old passport. That meant-... 

“You broke into his room, you wench,” Andrés drawled, narrowing his eyes. “That room was off-limits. It was closed for a reason.”

“The reason being?” Nairobi tilted her chin defiantly. “This is some horror movie-level bullshit. There’s a locked room, an abandoned grave and we keep hearing footsteps at night, Denver is losing his goddamn mind about this.”

“Nairobi, look, we can’t-... “ Sergio tried but she shook her head immediately at that. 

“No, you have to. I already know most of it,” she barked and then began counting on her fingers. “If the passport is not false, then his name was Martín. The photo in the document? That’s him alright, because I saw a picture in his room, with him and you, Berlín, way younger, so you must’ve known each other for a long time.”

Andrés’ lips were pressed so tightly together that they were turning white. Sergio honestly feared for Nairobi, but she was unstoppable. 

“Bogotá seemed to know him, so I asked. He said he'd met him at your fifth wedding. He said Martín lived here, which of course he did, his things are still here after all. And his sketches? Models? The machines? He was the one to figure out how to get in, wasn’t he? He came up with the interconnecting chamber. And you two, “ she laughed, incredulous. “You two _fuckers_ are not giving him any credit. He’s not here, his things are and there is a grave. So I want to know - how did he die?”

Sergio’s hands shook, because Nairobi was right; Martín became a secret, stripped of everything he once was and what they were doing? Using his ideas, his - Sergio had to admit - his genius ideas, without mentioning his name even once. He took that away from him while he was alive and now, he was ripping the plan again from his cold, dead hands. He’s buried him, yes, alright, he did the right thing. But what kind of a funeral was it, he thought, remembering vividly the awful thumping sound of a body wrapped in nothing but a white sheet hitting the wet soil.

He snapped back to reality when he heard Andrés laugh. 

“You think you’re so _clever_ ,” he snarled and Sergio saw him force his body to feign relaxation, elegant inertness, indifference, as he gestured around with his hand. “You think you’ve sniffed out some criminal mystery, hm? The reality is pathetic and you’re going to be disappointed, my dear.”

Nairobi stared at him, frowning, clearly immune to his bullshit at this point. 

“He was desperately, disgustingly in love with me, you see. However, since our plan had some, ah-... flaws, the main one being said love, I had to throw him out. Poor thing,” he pursed his lips in mock empathy. “didn’t take that too well. He got drunk and shot himself in the head.”

Sergio stared at the floor. They were in the very same room, it felt wrong-... Nairobi gasped.

“How dare you-”

“Stop playing the caregiver for one minute. If he were here,” Andrés smiled and there was some truth in that smile. “You would have hated his guts. You know what he was? A sad, mean piece of shit. What he became was the sacrifice our lovely Professor here demanded for his plan, for your wealth and glory as well as mine, Nairobi.”

“You’re the one who’s a piece of shit,” she spat. “You said he was in love with you and you what? You used him and threw him away. That’s how you treat your friends? Ha, great to know that if I die, you won’t ever mention me again. You're heartless.”

“In the relationships of love,” Andrés said slowly, poisonous anger dripping from his voice. “There is always the lover and the beloved. The lover being devoted, passionate, a true romantic. The beloved, however, simply enjoys being worshipped. You might think that being the beloved is easy, but it’s the opposite - you hold the lover’s heart in your hand and, whether you like it or not, you’re responsible for it, for that little thing, fragile, obsessed with the romanticism of it all.”

He glanced at Sergio and smirked. 

“And one of the principles of romanticism... is _suicide_.”

 _Motherfucker_.

Sergio lost it in that moment; with a growl, he grabbed Andrés by the nape of his neck, forcing him to bow down a little, and began pushing him out of the chapel, Andrés spluttering curses and Nairobi calling after them. 

He dragged his brother out of the monastery and towards Martín’s grave, where he pushed him to his knees. 

Andrés’ fingers digged into the ground after he fell, and he looked up at Sergio, his eyes wide. 

“And what exactly,” he spat. “do you want me to do here?”

“I don’t know, do _something_ ,” Sergio stared down at him. “I’m not an idiot, you are not fine, besides, you owe him that. Cry, scream, wail, whatever. But you have to let it out.”

Andrés scoffed and Sergio kept himself from punching him.

It was a good decision, because finally, Andrés shook his head and dropped his gaze. Slowly, he dragged his hands over the ground, over the cold, moist soil, ripping out some of the grass. Then, he leaned down, his spine curving like a wild animal’s, his face an inch above the ground. Sergio stared, shocked, as Andrés, who was always so pristine and elegant, pressed a kiss to the soil, his mouth opening a little, eyes fluttering closed. He turned his head to the side, then, pressing his cheek to the grave, and opened his eyes, staring back at Sergio. He looked feverish, feral, insane. His lips were dirty, making him look like a corpse himself. 

“ _What the fuck_?” Sergio asked quietly. 

“That’s what I’ve done to bid him farewell the last time, too. A kiss of death, can you imagine?” he laughed, breathless, and the sound made Sergio’s skin crawl. “I underestimated him, dearest brother.”

“I don’t… I don’t get it.”

Andrés ran his hands over the ground one more time before he pulled himself to his feet. 

“Come on. I’ll explain, if that’s what you really want.”

They sat in Andrés’ room and the man poured Sergio some red wine before taking his own glass and draping himself across the chaise longue. The lights were dimmed and Andrés has turned on the recorder, playing tango classics. Sergio marveled at how utterly pretentious, ridiculous and overly dramatic his brother could be, even if what he was about to discuss was raw grief and tragedy.

“What am I supposed to do now, huh?” Andrés sighed deeply. “Dig out his skeleton, hoping that there's no meat left for the maggots to feast on, put that thing in my bed and maybe finally get some sleep? Or should I snap the bones and make them into a nice little crown to wear on my head ? Oh, _the beloved_ , the master of life and death.”

Andrés grinned. The expression on his face was a clear indication that there wasn’t a single rational thought in his head. He was mad; like Achilles, like Macbeth, like Raskolnikov.

“You should show some damn respect. You’re being cruel,” Sergio muttered, looking away. 

"I’m being cruel? How about fate being fucking cruel, hm? I was supposed to have maybe three years. Meanwhile, it’s been five and my symptoms aren’t getting any worse. That's karma for you. He’s rotting in the ground and I’m living and breathing, denying every sentence. Besides, he would never care about respect. Bones are nothing but bones, Sergio. A dead body is nothing but rot,” he sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair. 

“You’re pretending he never existed. You’re denying him the right to be… mourned.”

Andrés burst out laughing at that. 

“But you have seen through me, haven’t you? At least a little bit. Truth is, he’s _everywhere_ , Sergio. I keep seeing him out of the corner of my eye, not like a scary apparition from a children’s story, I keep seeing him because that’s where he’s _supposed_ to be, somewhere around me.”

Sergio shook his head and got up, pacing the room. 

“I still don’t understand, Andrés-... what did you tell him?” he stopped in his track, spilling some wine on the floor. “That night. What happened?”

Andrés stretched out on the chaise longue even more, seeming delighted. He pressed the chill glass of wine to his cheek. 

“I had the perfect idea, my dear brother. I gave him what he wanted, a kiss, a declaration of love, a promise… And I left him with that. Hopeful and hopeless, bound to me forever, because there was no way he would get over that. He was _mine_. Well, almost,” he laughed again, putting his thumb and his pointing finger close together, squinting at the small space in-between. “ _Casi_. I thought I left him at checkmate, but that insufferable brat beat me at my own game.”

“A game,” Sergio repeated. He felt exhausted; he took a much needed seat. 

“Yes, _hermanito_ , a game of power. He’d won! Now I’m the one who’s bound, who’s stuck, caged, while he is-... he is nowhere and at the same time, he is everywhere, in the very air I breathe. Whenever I close my eyes,” he said and did just so, smiling softly, melting. “I see _Martín_.”

That was the first time in five years that Sergio’s heard Andrés utter the name and it was said with so much softness and longing that he could barely believe it.

“Look at me, I’m positively devastated!” Another fit of laughter. “He’s managed to do something no one ever has done, to break me completely, to reduce me to the pain in my chest, because all I can think about is him and how I’ll never get to have him now.”

Sergio got up, slowly, and moved to take a seat next to Andrés. He removed the glass that was threatening to fall out of his shaking hand and placed it on the table before gently resting Andrés’ head against his lap, wiping at his wet cheeks because in the middle of his speech and his manic laughter, the man began to cry. 

“I was so angry at him that I would have strangled him if there was still a breath trapped in his body,” Andrés said through his sobs and his chuckles. “But I forgive him, the cleverest little thing, how can I stay mad at him when he’s - no, when he _was_ \- so clever, so wicked, so perfect.”

“Perfect,” he echoed. “You said-... a declaration, a kiss-... Andrés, it sounds as if you were _in love_.”

Andrés went boneless on the chaise longue, another breathless, decadent laugh rattling in his chest. 

“I was… _I am_! I could’ve given him one look and he would have understood, I could’ve snapped my fingers and he would have been there, I could’ve kicked him to the ground and he would have kissed my boot, always so eager, so loyal, so loving.”

“That’s not love,” Sergio whispered. “That’s madness.”

“Nooo, you don’t _get it_ ,” Andrés whined, squeezing his eyes shut. “Of course it’s madness, but there’s more, there’s his voice whenever he sang, his touch, the look in his eyes, _the way he tasted_ … And just when I thought I’ve used him completely, when I thought he had nothing to give, he gave his _life_.”

Sergio felt his hands shake as he stoked Andrés’ hair, trying to make sense of his words - and failing. 

“He gave me his life and now I’m left with _nothing_.”

The words were confusing, a tangle of lust and cruelty under the disguise of romance, but then again, Sergio did know two things for sure: one, Martín loved Andrés. Two, he has never seen Andrés like… this. 

“I’m empty,” Andrés rasped. He shook his head, laughing, squeezing his eyes shut. He curled up, then, and shook with sobs as Sergio held him, marveling at every wave of pure, destructive, maddening grief.

The next day, Sergio crawled into the kitchen only half-awake and in desperate need for sugar and caffeine. As he reached to open the fridge, he saw something on its door that hasn’t been there before; a picture, the one Nairobi mentioned, of Andrés and Martín. The photo was old and worn, but the two of them were way younger, their hair longer and tousled, their arms wrapped around each other as they both grinned into the camera like two wild animals. It was pressed to the fridge with a magnet-bottle opener, shaped into a panorama of Palermo, a dumb souvenir Martín once bought, stating that he wanted to have a piece of his favorite city with him no matter where Andrés would drag him to next. 

Sergio looked around and let out a sigh when he noticed Andrés and Nairobi sitting at the table; his brother was clearly exhausted and hungover, but calm, carefully indiferent, sipping on his coffee; she was sitting next to him, quiet, frowning slightly. She looked up at Sergio, glanced at the photo on the fridge, then back at Sergio to give him a small nod; _good enough_. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final part !  
> I hope you guys have fun xx

Andrés opens his eyes and takes a sharp breath, then exhales.

He is surprised to find out that breathing is possible; easy, even. There's no blood filling his lungs, bubbling in his throat, coming up to his mouth and making him choke and sputter it all over himself like these dumb sea creatures on the Piazza Santissima Annunziata fountain. 

He takes another breath.

There's no pain, there are no bullets in him, no metallic aftertaste on his tongue and his eyelids are not heavy anymore; his vision is not blurry. Underneath his fingertips, he doesn't feel the rough concrete; instead, there's grass tickling his hands and cold, moist soil, soothing to touch.

He tries to focus; finds it easy. He listens and Lisbon is not screaming anymore. 

_What have you done?! What have you done, you idiot?!_

He's glad that her voice is no longer piercing through his skull and he hopes that she'll take this chance and manage to go back to his brother, safely. 

The only sounds he can pick up now are the wind and the quiet splashing of water in the river nearby. 

He stares up at the dark grey sky, heavy with clouds. It’s not raining yet, but he can already smell it in the air. 

He knows exactly where he is. 

Andrés sits up and stares at the monastery. It looks quiet and empty; suddenly, a violent shiver runs down his spine because somehow, he knows what day it is, even though neither Sergio nor Tatiana are there. 

He gets up and just to be sure, circles the monastery to take a look at the scrap of land behind it. He sees no cross, no grave - Martín isn't buried yet. 

_So Hell does exist_ , he thinks. He wonders if this is going to be like _Groundhog Day_ , if he will have to wake up every day and do what he's forced Sergio to do. Pick up his mess. Wouldn't that be poetic? He’s pushed Martín's to death and now, he will be forced to keep reliving it. 

He steps into the monastery and as he's walking down the corridor leading to that accursed chapel, he remembers everything. He knew what had happened the moment he saw the blood on Sergio's hand. Still, he couldn't stand the sight of Martín's body; his eyes, which have always pierced him with so much emotion, were dead, dead and empty, and it was too much. Selfishly, cowardly, he wanted to remember Martín alive. 

He takes a deep breath as he steps into the chapel and of course, of course there's blood on the wall and Andrés can't help it, he does the exact same thing he's done the first time, he turns his back to it, squeezes his eyes shut and thinks: _no, no, no, I don't want to_.

 _I don't want to_. 

Like a spoiled brat.

"You're being ridiculous," a voice tears through the still air in the chapel and Andrés almost sinks to his knees. Instead, he spins around and- _oh_. 

_There he is_. 

He looks just like in these last few months, working on their wonderful project, with his hair elegantly pushed to the side, with a healthy blush to his cheeks, but he's dressed in that incredibly tasteless hawaiian shirt that he was wearing when they've met for the first time, so long ago, in the dark, hot Buenos Aires.

He stares at Andrés and he's calm, he's serene, but there is still that fire burning in his eyes and he looks beautiful. 

Andrés lets the breath leave his lungs with a wheeze and he surges forward with determination, but Martín steps swiftly to the side, hands clasped behind his back as he laughs and the sound is like church bells. 

Andrés can’t help but laugh himself. 

“Trying to play hard to get? You’ve already outdone yourself with that suicide, you know.”

“Trying to be hurtful? You’ve outdone yourself already with those kisses.”

Andrés shrugs, leaning against the desk. Martín moves closer, his steps slow and deliberate. He pulls away when Andrés reaches to touch him and leans back in a moment later, tilting his head to the side. 

“Missed me?” he asks and Andrés grins. _Bastard_. For once in his life - death? that’s hilarious - he decides to be honest. 

“Yes,” he nods. 

“How long?” 

“Five years.”

“Mmm…” Martín hums. His lips part slightly and his tongue touches the chip in his tooth, a thing so characteristic to him that Andrés almost melts at the spot. “I don’t think that’s enough. Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

Andrés stares. He tries to reach again - Martín leans back. He drops his hand. 

“More than I could ever imagine. Should I describe it to you?”

“Always,” he says. 

Andrés takes a deep breath. 

“I wanted you gone. I wanted to forget everything about you. I wanted to tear out my insides. But you were everywhere, all the time, and still, I couldn’t have you.”

Martín moves a little closer and his scent is the most comforting thing in the entire world. He never wore heavy cologne; he would limit himself to a fresh scent of an aftershave. Andrés inhales deeply, tilting his head towards him. 

“I wanted to chase every shadow that seemed to take your form. I dreamed of you and I never wanted to wake up from it. I wanted to crawl into your grave and sleep there.”

“Was it good?” Martín asks in a whisper and Andrés shivers. 

“Wonderful. You destroyed me completely, _mi querido_ , you made me break into pieces.”

“Now that’s what I like.”

Finally, _finally_ , Martín gives in, pressing himself against Andrés, wrapping his arms around his neck, brushing his lips with a soft kiss and Andrés runs his hands over his body - his sides, his back, his neck and jaw and cheeks and hair and it feels-... _right_. 

“If I had let you go,” Martín says against his lips. “I would have gone mad with grief.”

“I know. I did,” Andrés holds him tighter. 

“I have suffered enough already.”

“That’s also true.”

Martín scratches at the nape of his neck and Andrés closes his eyes, content. 

“What did you do with my corpse, love?”

“I-... Sergio buried it. Here, behind the monastery.”

“Mmm…” Martín pulls back, smirking. “Were you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, then,” he says quietly, stepping away, turning away, heading out. For the first- well, technically, _second_ time ever, it’s Andrés who follows. 

They leave the monastery and Andrés shows him spot the grave once was in - still is, somewhere that seems far away now. Here, however, Martín lies down on the grass and grins up at him. Andrés joins him, drops to his knees, then drapes himself all over the other man like he’s done over the ground when Sergio made him confront his grief. 

Minutes are passing by, slowly, and the two of them are completely boneless. Andrés is lying on top of Martín with his full body weight, their chests pressed together, limbs stretched out comfortably. Beneath him, Martín stares over his shoulder, up and into the dark clouds. 

He breathes slowly and deeply, pressing his forehead to the cold ground, and, what a delight, Martín’s breath is synchronised with his own. He’s warm against him, he smells nice and at some point, he turns his head slightly to the side to nuzzle his ear. 

“ _Te quiero a muerte_ ,” he whispers and Andrés shivers, then smiles.

He turns his head too and they look each other in the eyes, breathing together. 

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

“What happens now?” he asks. 

“Does it matter?”

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

“No.”

**Author's Note:**

> you're all free to throw insults at me on tumblr


End file.
